


The Promises We Keep

by bookwormforever



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flashbacks, Harry Potter AU, Marauders AU, Minor Character Death, Multi, the 100 au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6981883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookwormforever/pseuds/bookwormforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin is a sixth year Slytherin whose father angered some dangerous people. Bellamy Blake is a seventh year Gryffindor with a big heart and an eye for trouble. Somewhere along the way, they became friends. Meanwhile the magical world is plunged into turmoil with the rise of a dark wizard named Voldemort and friendships are tested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue & Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this is my first attempt at writing a fic for the 100... or a multi-chapter fic... or really any fic at all. I got inspired for this fic months ago but didn't have time to start writing it til now. Originally this was going to be a Jily!AU but I kinda had to shift that just because I didn't want to force Bell or Clarke into characters they weren't, ya feel? The rating is subject to change as the fic organically develops... idk lets just see where this takes us, shall we?

Clarke was never ashamed of being in Slytherin. She wore the emerald tie around her neck with a pointed pride and head held high. She heard the whispers—felt the looks—but didn’t give a damn, though the indifference was hard won.

Being a blood traitor was challenging. But being a blood traitor in Slytherin house was doubly so. More often than not, she got more flack from the other Houses than within her own. Everyone knew about Jake Griffin and his stand for Muggle rights. Everyone knew what had happened to him.

So she was something of a pariah, though that is not to say she was without friends. Somehow, despite her circumstances, Clarke had a gravity about her that pulled just about everyone in. Some tried resisting, but you can’t fight gravity and, no matter what, people gravitated to her like a planet to the sun.

 

* * *

 

 

Mornings were awful. Everyone knew this fact. Some people lied, but Clarke knew the truth: that mornings were awful and no one in their right mind would like them. So it made sense that, at the unholy hour of six-thirty on a chilly September morning, Clarke would have the Great Hall largely to herself. She, of course, was wrong.

At the opposite end of the hall a crowd of boisterous Gryffindors ate, clad in their Quidditch gear, preparing for practice. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Raven—or _“Captain Reyes”_ as she liked to be called—was lecturing her team like they had already disappointed her with lackluster performances. Seeing as the Hall was still almost empty, Clarke caught snippets of Raven’s speech, much to the former’s amusement.

“Honestly, you all are a fucking disgrace. Did any of you run through the training exercises I owled you this summer? Harper! Are you even listening?!”

Clarke raised herself slightly off the bench to look at the offending team member who had, apparently, fallen promptly asleep on her eggs, causing a yolk to burst and leak into her hair. At the sound of her name, Harper had shot up, spraying her teammates on either side with bits of sunny yolk. There was a chorus of laughter and Raven cracked a smile, throwing a chunk of toast down to “mop up the mess”

“Enjoying the theatrics, princess?”

Clarke plopped herself back on the bench as Bellamy sidled in next to her, dragging a plate of sausages with him. She eyed the boy curiously, quirking a brow and her mouth twitched into a smile.

“Not joining the dark side, are we?” she asked, casting a significant look to the crimson tie around his neck.

“Oh please,” he said lightly, stabbing a sausage with the fork before taking a generous bite. “House tables are a formality. Besides, no one else is awake yet except _them_ “—he jerked his head in the direction of the Quidditch team—“and I hate eating with them.”

“You’re _one_ of _'them'_ ,” Clarke drawled, her brow furrowing when she realized that he wasn’t wearing a Quidditch jumper. “Or has Raven officially usurped you?”

Blake flashed her a large grin before composing a mask of complete sobriety, the picture only slightly less convincing as he was obviously still battling the smile. He dropped his gaze to the floor. “Regretfully, I have been… suspended from the team. According to my very sage Head of House, it is not befitting for the Gryffindor co-captain to be found wandering the grounds _far_ after curfew, even if said co-captain insists he was merely scouting out the Quidditch pitch to ensure it was immaculately kept—which is was, by the way, in case you were wondering—”

“I wasn’t.”

“—Which brings us to this most fortuitous meeting as they,” he gestured towards the rowdy team with a flick of his head, “will be leaving shortly and I hate eating alone.”

“Lucky me.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning at her again as he shoved another half-sausage in his mouth. “So, what brings you out of the dungeon at this hour?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” she said back, spearing one of the sausages on his plate with her fork. He made an affronted sound and looked like he was going to try to reclaim his pillaged breakfast, but Clarke quickly took a bite, claiming it as her own. “But, seeing as I am acquainted with you, I already know the answer. As for my presence, it is merely coincidental.”

It was, as a matter of fact, completely non-coincidental as it largely had to do with the fact that Clarke was avoiding a fellow Slytherin sixth year, Lexa. She had managed so far to steer clear of the girl in question through many a ridiculous measure, including but not limited to ducking behind suits of armour, hiding behind tapestries, and generally finding excuses to not be alone with her classmate.

Bellamy looked sideways at her and grinned a little wider. “Bullshit.”

Clarke looked at him for a long moment before huffing and taking another bite of the stolen sausage. “Fine. But I’m not talking about it, least of all at this hour. Least _least_ of all with you.”

Bellamy put his hands up in mock surrender, the effect somewhat lessened due to the fact that there was a half-eaten sausage impaled on the fork he still held in one hand. “Okay, safer grounds then.”

They continued to talk of small things for quite some time, until the sunlight turned from a watery grey to honey gold and the Hall grew increasingly busy. The Gryffindor Quidditch team had long since left, removing one facet of entertainment for the pair, though the absence was quickly filled as bleary-eyed students filtered in. In fact, the pair talked until almost all four tables were quite full and Miller, Bellamy’s fellow Gryffindor seventh year, beckoned him to return to their house table.

“Coming, dearest,” Bellamy hollered back as he rose up from the Slytherin table, his grin not quite touching his eyes, which looked at her with hint of concern. “Well, princess, think you can manage the rest of your breakfast without me?”

Clarke was only slightly confused about his meaning when she realized exactly what brought her out so early on a Saturday morning. Her stomach churned sourly but masked her discomfort with an exaggerated eye roll.

“I think I’ll manage just fine, Blake,” her voice dripped with irony but sobered slightly and gave him the barest hint of a smile. “Go on. I should get started on my Potions essay anyways.”

She watched as Bellamy crossed the Hall, his plate still somehow heavy-laden with an obscene amount of sausages even though Clarke knew she must have eaten three, and Bellamy twice as much. Too anxious to eat, she got up and left the Hall without as much as a hello to anyone else, though a few of her other friends—a.k.a. Monty Green, fellow 6th year in Hufflepuff—tried catching her eye. She felt a twinge of guilt as she pretended not to notice him but she had to leave the Hall before—

“Clarke!”

She was just about to round the corner, effectively cutting her off visually from the entrance hall when she heard the voice that belonged to the person she had zero desire to see. Deciding that it was too late to feign deafness and too immature to run, she sighed and turned. “What do you want?”

“Clarke, please talk to me,” Lexa pleaded, her usually impassive mask cracked, allowing brief glimpses of genuine emotion to bleed through. “It’s been weeks! If you’d just let me explain—“

“Explain what, Lexa?” Clarke said coolly, though her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Explain why you didn’t show up to the Muggle Rights rally you promised you would? Why you _ratted out my father_ as the man leading the movement? It’s because of you that he—that _we_ —had to go into hiding this! For Merlin’s sake, Lexa, _Death Eaters_! They aren’t just a political movement anymore, they’re hurting people! They’ve threatened to—”

Clarke’s words stuck in her throat and she tried swallowing a couple times, though it felt as if something large was now lodged in her throat.

Lexa opened her mouth to say something but Clarke silenced her with a look. “Just don’t. You have nothing to say that I want to hear.”

She turned quickly on her heel and stormed away, telling herself that the pricking feeling behind her eyes was due to lack of sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

September was, in a word, hectic. Clarke was very aware that even being considered for an apprenticeship at St. Mungo’s was nearly impossible, let alone going through the rigorous application and interview process. She had managed to do rather spectacularly in the O.W.L.s but that was only enough to get her application moved from “ _Rejected_ ” to “ _Processing_ ”. She knew that, if she’d ask, her mother would give her a letter of recommendation but… well, it was all just too complicated right now. Clarke hadn’t seen her mother more than a handful of times since they had to go into hiding and she didn’t much feel like breaking that silence just yet.

Now thoroughly distracted from _Maladies for Muggles and Magicals Alike_ , Clarke realized just how late it was. The library was nearly empty and a loud growl from her stomach notified her that she had definitely skipped lunch, if not dinner. Judging from the failing light weakly colouring the sky outside, she figured it would be fruitless to hope that there still might be dinner waiting in the Great Hall but she packed up nonetheless. Perhaps Lexa had—

Clarke cut that thought short. She instead decided to swing by the hallway leading to the kitchens. Sometimes a lone house elf could be cornered and coerced into bringing her a plate of leftovers if she was charming enough. And she often was.

She had just finished writing down her current research books (and important pages) when someone sat down across from her, bringing with them the scent of a fireplace, worn leather, and… chicken?

“Missed you at lunch,” Bellamy said conversationally, not bothering with any form of greeting. “And supper.”

“Sorry, Mum,” she shot back, angry with him for… something. Probably for smelling like chicken. Her stomach grumbled again.

“No need to get short with me, princess. I brought you a gift, but if you would rather me eat it instead, I definitely won’t object. Full disclosure, I did bring two but ate one along the way. The house elves outdid themselves once again.”

Clarke glared at him, though it was mostly for show. She scanned his person, or at least as much as she could with a table hiding 60% of him behind it but saw no food. “Where is it?”

“Tsk tsk, princess. _Manners_. Are we not civilized? When we lose our manners, we lose sight of—hey!”

Clarke lunged at him, table be damned. Her neatly stacked books tipped over, some spilling onto the floor with a few dull thuds. Truthfully Bellamy almost tumbled to the ground as well, but managed to stay upright as his chair struck the shelf behind him. It wobbly slightly and both of them paused, waiting to see if the library was about to become a very large set of dominos but it too managed to stay upright, thankfully. Knowing that a very put-out librarian would surely soon swoop down upon them like an elderly avenging angel, they fled the library.

“Here,” Bellamy said, tossing Clarke a neatly wrapped, large chicken sandwich from a pocket of his robes. She thanked him and wolfed it down, saving her teasing comments until after the sandwich was safely eaten and therefore, unstealable.

“So, do you always keep food in your pockets like a squirrel? Or—no, let me guess… You’re like one of those muggle magicians who, instead of pulling rabbits from hats, pulls an assortment of meals from pockets?”

Bellamy grinned. “They call me the Great Foodini.”

Clarke groaned, though couldn’t stop her own grin from growing. “Yikes, Bell. That was bad, even for you.”

Bellamy made a dismissive gesture, and started saying that his jokes were amazing and that she needn’t pretend not to like them but he trailed off, hearing approaching footsteps echoing down the hallway. _Its strange how something so mundane can sound so ominous,_ Clarke mused as Professor Slughorn rounded the corner.

“Ah, there you are Miss Griffin,” Slughorn said, his usual joviality significantly dampened. “I’ve been looking for you most of the day. I need you to come with me... to see Professor Dumbledore. I’m afraid it’s quite urgent. Mr. Blake, if you would excuse us…”

“O–of course, Professor,” she said quietly, falling into step behind Slughorn who had already started towards the Headmasters Office. Clarke cast a look back to Bellamy, who looked just as confused as she felt, but she couldn’t help feeling that was very wrong. Bellamy’s chicken sandwich churned sourly in her stomach. What could possibly be important enough to summon her to the Headmaster’s office at this hour?

Before she knew it, she was ushered into Dumbledore’s office and stood across from the sombre-looking wizard himself. The twinkle in his bright blue eyes was all but extinguished, making Clarke suddenly feel very small and very afraid.

“Miss Griffin,” he said, gently placing his clasped hands on the desk overtop of a opened letter. “I am very sorry to say, but I seem to be the bearer of very grave news. Your father…”

And, in an instant, Clarke’s world was shattered. She no longer heard Dumbledore speak, only caught fragmented pieces of his sentences that cut her with their sharp edges. There had been an attack on her parents’ safe house. Her mother had been away, visiting her old practice in the city, but had come home today to see the Dark Mark writhing over their destroyed home. Her father. Dead. Tortured, for days perhaps. They weren’t sure if the Death Eaters were after information or simply wanted to send a message; _this is what happens to those who oppose us_. In the end, what did it matter. He was dead. Dead and gone. And Clarke never got to say good-bye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two is in the works. Unfortunately I don't have any betas so this fic will probably be a mess but I am open to any criticisms left in the comments! Also feel free to hmu on tumblr @ jamespottersantlers


	2. Beginnings and Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke tries to comprehend the loss of her father as we catch glimpses into her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay here it is! This chapter became basically 80% flashbacks but I think it's important so I left it. Hopefully you agree. Unfortunately there is no bellarke in this chapter. I know it's supposed to be a bellarke fic and I did write a scene, but I couldn't manage to fit it in so it'll be in the next chapter. So, without further ado, here it is!

Clarke Griffin had the benefit of not only being from a wealthy pureblood family, but also being exceptionally bright and (relatively) easy to get along with. She had two loving parents, an excellent best friend—with more on the horizon—and a budding relationship with a boy in her class.

 

Fourth year was in full swing and everything was coloured with the honeyed glow of autumn. The professors seemed hell-bent on limiting the students’ free time to zero but even that couldn’t dampen Clarke’s mood. Despite the early hour, she found herself fully awake and headed to the library to get a jump-start on Professor McGonagall’s Transfiguration essay. It wasn’t due for a couple weeks but Clarke’s good mood translated to productivity, which means finishing early, which means continuing her good mood; a cycle she was inclined to keep repeating.

 

The few people that populated the library this early were typically upperclassmen antsy to get their OWL and NEWT preparations well underway. Not wanting to earn herself any death glares, she chose a table closer to the back of the library in a secluded alcove and started gathering the books she would need.

 

‘ _Tinkering With Transfiguration: A Simple Guide to Switching Spells_ ‘ _… yes, I need that one_ , she thought as she ran her index finger along the spines, _‘Altering Appearances’ yes, ‘Magical Metamorphasis’ yes, ‘When Conjuring Counts!: A Clever—‘_

“Hey!” she said as the fourth and final textbook she needed whizzed off the shelf and right past her ear. She spun only to see the book— _her book_ —get snatched out of the air by a Gryffindor girl in her year. A pair of dark brown eyes regarded her for a minute, flicking down briefly to the stack of books in her arms, then her tie, and back to her face. Clarke saw the girl weighing her options before she shrugged and flicked her head towards a table on the other side of the alcove.

 

“C’mon, we can work on this together. You’ve got the rest of them, yeah?”

 

“Wha—uh, yeah. Okay. Sure. I have a table over here—no, okay yeah we’ll work at yours.”

 

The girl— _Raven, I think?_ —flopped into a chair, already looking like she was ready for a break. Clarke set her stack down, a little unsure of how this morning took such a peculiar turn. She wasn’t necessarily _opposed_ to sharing the workload—it would save time and effort—but usually she _knew_ the person, or was at least acquainted with them. All she knew about the girl across from her was that she was a Gryffindor in her year and—

 

“Are you done staring or would you like a few more minutes?” she asked in a matter-of-fact tone, making Clarke flush.

 

“S-sorry, I was just trying to, um… _trying-to-remember-your-name_?”

 

The other girl smirked before offering her hand to Clarke. “I’m Raven. Gryffindor, fourth year, aspiring Quidditch pro.”

 

Clarke took the offered hand, smiling. “Clarke Griffin. Slytherin, fourth as well. Um, aspiring Hogwarts graduate?”

 

“Nice to meet you, Clarke,” Raven said, releasing her hand and turning her attention back to the book. “So, you a Transfiguration whiz? Because I am. “

 

Time passed relatively quickly and before they knew it, their essays had an incredible groundwork and they had plans to meet for lunch. Clarke and Raven waved good-bye with promises to meet later and the latter headed towards the dungeon.

 

Halfway there, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Her face lit up the minute she recognized the figure coming towards her. “Finn!”

 

“Hey there, princess,” he drawled, flashing her a dazzling smile.

 

* * *

_Present Day_

 

Time seemed to have stopped. Clarke’s heart thumped erratically in her chest as if it had forgotten its rhythm. Instead it skipped and stopped with no rhyme or reason beyond the fact that it knew it was _supposed_ to beat, but no longer knew how. And then, all at once, she couldn’t feel it beat anymore. She couldn’t feel _anything_ anymore.

 

* * *

 

 

Transfiguration with Raven had become a routine after that fateful meeting in early October. Their friendship began out of necessity as Clarke found Transfiguration tedious and Raven had a knack for it that bordered on the occult. They had even begun to sit together in class, which raised a few eyebrows but no one dared question it.

 

Raven had a reputation for being… well, scary. She was brilliant and usually nice enough, but get on her bad side and you’ll be lucky to get away from her unscathed. Clarke knew for a fact that Raven had a nasty finger-removing jinx that had been responsible for many a lost digit, especially concerning the middle one. That being said, she was also a fiercely loyal friend who, despite a prickly exterior, had proven more than once to be a deeply caring person. However if you tried to tell her that, she would probably roll her eyes and call you a giant sap.

 

That was why, on a blustery February evening, Clarke was a little concerned when Raven didn’t show up for their scheduled study meeting in the Library. She had waited around for three hours, knowing that occasionally Quidditch practice ran late, or perhaps she had lost track of time… but it was unlike Raven to stand her friends up without so much as a word of warning.

 

So after a few minutes—or hours—of fretting, Clarke decided to go to Gryffindor Tower to check in on her friend. She put away the textbooks as quickly as possible, trying to hurry through the process before she lost what little nerve she had. She worried her lip, letting book after book slip from her hands and glide back onto the shelf. She had just let go of _Morphing Mundane Materials_ when a hand reached out and snatched the last book she held onto.

 

“Hey! What do you think you are doing?!” she hissed, spinning the glare daggers at the thief. He was tall with curly, dark hair and a distracting amount of freckles. He also happened to be from Gryffindor.

 

 _What is it with that House and pilfering my books_ , she thought bitterly.

 

The freckled thief simply shrugged. “I figured you were done with it. You had mountain of books—and by the way, you’re only supposed to have three at a time—so I thought I’d save you the trouble of putting it away. Plus I need it. Its an OWL prep book and a little above your required reading.”

 

“Tell that to Raven,” Clarke muttered to herself, remembering the conversation the two girls had had earlier. Raven had insisted that the book— _Reshaping Reality_ —was crucial for their essay on cross-species transfiguration, despite being far too advanced for their comprehension.

 

“Reyes? Yeah, I can do that,” the boy said, his lips twitching into a smirk. “And who should I say is lodging the complaint?”

 

Clarke felt heat rise to her face; surprised that he heard her, but doubly so that didn’t know who she was. The Griffins were an old family and most people knew who she was before she had even attended Hogwarts. Her mother was a celebrated magical physician and her father worked at the Ministry, though he was most famous for his Muggle rights campaigns. It was strangely pleasing to be anonymous for once. “Never mind who I am. And how do you know I was done with that? Maybe I was going to check it out.”

 

His grin grew, revealing a perfect set of teeth. “You can’t check out books that are OWL or NEWT prep, princess. So unless you plan on staying here and studying ahead, I suggest you let this one go.”

 

Clarke glared at him for a few minutes out of pure stubbornness but she knew he was right. She huffed and, without another word, stormed off.

 

“See you around, princess!” the boy called after her. She heard a smile in his voice with a hint of taunting, and felt her cheeks blaze in response.

 

Clarke got a small amount of satisfaction from a yelp that came from his direction, surely from the bitter librarian who reined her wrath upon “unruly” students in her realm, as she exited the Library.

 

Unfortunately she forgot all about her plans to check in on Raven and, therefore, was unprepared for what would happen next.

 

* * *

_Present Day_

 

Dumbledore conjured a portkey to the Ministry for her immediate departure. He was talking to her, telling her that until they could get another safe house ready for her and her mother, the Ministry would find somewhere for them to wait comfortably.

 

Clarke tried focusing on Dumbledore’s face, tried to hear the words, but everything seemed so far away. He handed her an old, ratty storybook and she took it mechanically, her fingers closing around the shredded binding. The letters on the cover were illegible, at least to her, but she ran her finger over the image of a young witch kissing a large, warty toad who smiled smugly.

 

She lifted her head, about to ask the Headmaster why he had given her this book when she felt a tug somewhere behind her navel. The world spun in a kaleidoscope of colours, making her feel more than a little nauseous, as she hurtled across the country.

 

As suddenly as it had started, the world abruptly stood still and Clarke swayed a little before collapsed into Abby Griffin’s arms. The storybook fell from her hands, thudding quietly as it hit the floor. She stared at the book, willing her hand to move to retrieve it, but it remained resolutely limp by her side. Even as they left the main atrium, Clarke’s eye continued to fall back on the book until the smiling toad was lost in the crowd, swept into a corner by an enchanted broom.

 

* * *

The next morning, Clarke arrived early to breakfast, hoping to have a word with Raven before classes began. Being so early, there were only a few people sitting at the tables, making it easier to determine that the Gryffindor had not yet come down for breakfast. She snagged a seat near the end of Slytherin table, hoping that sitting so near to the doors would allow her to spot Raven as she came in.

 

The Great Hall’s roof was a gloomy grey, indicating that today would likely be a cold, snowy day. Clarke didn’t think this was an ill omen: the castle was in Scotland, after all. It was gloomy most of the year and if you were to take every drizzly day as an omen, then you likely had a fairly rotten outlook on life.

 

More and more students filtered into the Hall, causing Clarke’s anxiety to rise, though she tried to ignore it. Raven probably slept in, or maybe she was ill… If she didn’t turn up before lunch, Clarke resolved to check the Hospital Wing. She hoped not to find her friend there, though she would be lying if she hadn’t frequently visited her friend in the wing. Combining Raven’s aggressive attitude and her penchant for solving disputes with hexes (or the occasional blows), it wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility for her to be confined to a cot, or in McGonagall’s office receiving punishment for an earlier fight.

 

Clarke pushed the eggs around her plate for a few more minutes before deciding to head to Transfiguration early in hopes of meeting Raven there.

 

She was standing in front of the closed classroom door thirty minutes before class was scheduled to start. Clarke’s suspicions increased as usually, McGonagall left the classroom door open so that early students could claim their seats and get ready for class early. The only times it was ever closed was in the evenings after lessons were done for the day or if someone was in trouble.

 

The minutes ticked by and still no Raven. More and more students gathered around the closed door of the Transfiguration classroom, but she couldn’t spot her friend in any of the groups milling about. Everyone seemed to be commenting on the closed door, speculating what the cause of it was.

“Do you think McGonagall’s ill?”

 

“Don’t be stupid, there’s nothing that Madam Pomfrey couldn’t cure in minute. Besides, I don’t even know if McGonagall _can_ get sick. She’d probably just tell her runny nose to pull it together or it would get a detention.”

 

“I bet someone’s in trouble. Probably one of Blake’s friends. Maybe they changed all the trolls in the tapestries into Filch again.”

 

“Nah, I think it’s Collins. I thought McGonagall was going to burst a blood vessel this morning.”

 

Clarke turned at the last one, coming face-to-face with Harper McIntyre. She was a Gryffindor, which meant she shared a dorm with Raven and a House with Finn.

 

“Hey Harper, have you seen Raven? We were supposed to meet last night in the Library but she never showed…” Clarke trailed off at the look the girl was giving her: half amused, half annoyed.

 

“You didn’t hear?” she said, one eyebrow quirking. ”Last night, Raven and Finn got into an argument, but so what else is knew? Well, I guess Raven was getting suspicious that he had another side fling because he was acting all shifty again, and he was sidestepping all of her questions, which _really_ made her suspicious so she asked who it was that he was seeing. Well, this continued for _several_ hours and—“

 

Harper continued to talk, but Clarke suddenly felt as if she was plunged into ice-cold water. Her shock must have shown because Harper stopped, looking at Clarke with some concern. “You alright?”

 

“R-Raven and Finn are _dating_?” she spluttered, aware that a few nearby students had stopped talking and were now looking at her.

 

“Uh, yeah. For like, what… a year? Year and a half? They grew up together and I guess they’ve always been close. They made it official sometime last summer, I think.”

 

Clarke nodded, feeling slightly nauseous. “So what happened next?”

 

Harper sighed. “Well, that’s where things got interesting. Raven may be brilliant, but Finn’s pretty sneaky when he wants to be. She didn’t end up getting any direct answers so she stormed off… To the boys’ dormitories.”

 

Harper paused for dramatic effect, seeing that her audience had grown. Clarke could have done without the theatrics but she tried to play the part of a regular student interested in the latest gossip.

 

“Well, no one noticed right away, obviously. The boys’ stairs aren’t protected like the girls’ stairs are so there wasn’t any stopping her. Now, don’t get me wrong, Raven isn’t the kind of girl to go rooting in her boyfriend’s stuff. Even if her boyfriend is a git. And, like I said before, Finn can be sneaky, but he didn’t think he had anything to hide in his own dorm. The dumbass left the letters _laying out_. Unfortunately the girl didn’t sign with her name but “princess”. That must be a pet name. Anyways, Raven tried her finger-removing jinx with a _different target in mind if you get my drift_. Well, I don’t know if it was successful or not but Finn got ushered to the Hospital Wing and Raven went straight to McGonagall’s.”

 

“But that was last night,” Wells said. _When did he get here_? Clarke though numbly before the Huffepuff boy continued. “That doesn’t explain why this door is shut _now_ , especially since class was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago.”

 

This time Harper just shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. By the time I went to bed, the drapes were pulled around Raven’s bed and _I_ wasn’t about to disturb her. And when I woke up, she was gone. Haven’t seen her all morning.”

 

Conversation burst into life around Clarke like kindling catching a flame. Right now, Clarke felt a little too much like dry grass and was very grateful for Wells’ company.

 

He regarded her closely, as if sensing her inner turmoil, but didn’t comment on it; didn’t push her. She felt a bubble of affection swell in her chest as she shifted closer to her best friend, pressing her shoulder to his in quiet gratitude. He, in turn, nudged her lightly, making her anxiety ebb ever so slightly.

 

Just as the chatter was reaching a fever pitch, the Transfiguration door flew open. All conversations died immediately as McGonagall appeared in the doorway, staring down at the lot. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, making her look a lot older and sterner than she was. “Class is cancelled. Please use this time to read through chapters 14 and 15 of your textbooks. In addition, I want you to all explain the dangers of altering spells, both in Transfiguration and other subjects. Two feet of parchment. Use both theoretical and practical examples. I want this on my desk next week at the beginning of class. Understood?”

 

A low murmur of assent went through the crowd; everyone was excited to have the morning off, but the added work was definitely not well received. Especially because most of the practical cases of spell alterations were OWL or NEWT prep books, which meant they could not leave the Library. Everyone was so preoccupied, either complaining about the essay or planning how to spend their free time, that no one noticed Raven Reyes slip out of the classroom, her eyes dark and puffy.

 

* * *

 

The grief was too much. She couldn’t possibly bear this much pain… so she didn’t. What first had felt like a large, open wound in her chest morphed into a void of nothingness; as if someone had reached into her chest, ripped out her heart, and replaced it with a black hole. It swallowed and consumed everything until she felt nothing at all. Numbness engulfed her and she couldn’t find it within herself to care.

 

She was vaguely aware of some Ministry witch explaining _The Incident_ to her. That’s what they called it. _The Incident._ As if her father was a casualty in a workplace accident, or some plotpoint in a shitty Muggle film; as if _her_ father, Jake Griffin, hadn’t been tortured and murder by a dark wizard hell-bent on destroying the world, only to rebuild it in his own sick way.

 

Jake Griffin, who liked to have eggs—sunny side up—on Sundays with two slices of white bread that almost dripped with butter. Jake Griffin, who insisted on watching the same Quidditch game three times: the first live, the second slowed to half-speed so he could “appreciate the plays”, and the third at double speed because it was hilarious. Jake Griffin, who had devoted his life to righting the wrongs he found in Ministry legislation that purposefully disadvantaged and excluded Muggleborns, Squibs, and Muggles (both with and without direct connection to the magical world). Jake Griffin, who now lay cold and dead in a hidden part of the Ministry, having his body examined and catalogued.

 

He wasn’t the first victim. The case file for Death-Eater-related crimes already filled three folders, though many lacked any significant evidence to move towards arrests or incarcerations. In fact, even in Jake’s case, there was little in the way of evidence pointing towards who the murderers were beyond that they must be Death Eaters. Only those within the inner circle know the spell to conjure the Dark Mark.

 

“Clarke?”

 

She wasn’t quite sure how, but suddenly she found herself sitting in her best friend’s room, staring dejectedly at her hands. She swiped her hand across her face; removing the tears she didn’t even realized were falling.

 

“I’m sorry, “ Clarke said a little self-consciously. It wasn’t that she was necessarily opposed to crying in front of Wells but she usually liked to be aware of the fact that she was crying. Seeing as the pair had grown up together, they both had witnessed the other crying their fair share of tears, often being the shoulder to cry on. However recently Clarke had found a few rogue tears silently skating down her cheeks without her consent and knowledge.

 

“It’s okay, Clarke.” Wells placed a warm hand on her knee, tilting his head to catch her eye. His face was so earnest, so compassionate, that she felt a lump rise in her throat. Sure, Wells used to have feelings for her. Less than platonic feelings. Time passed and the crush faded as their world expanded. At first it had be awkward but that too had passed and now they shared a fierce bond that neither time nor distance could touch.

 

Well’s father had insisted that he be privately tutored at the beginning of their fifth year. Thelonious held a prominent position in the Ministry that paints a target on his back, as well as his son’s. Sensing the changing climate, he pulled Wells from school to try to protect him, though Wells had proven several times over to not need the special attention.

 

Back in November of their third year, Wells had received a letter that his father had been gravely injured and was to travel via portkey to St. Mungo’s to be with him. Dumbledore had been suspicious and, while he did send Wells, McGonagall and Sprout accompanied him. Suspicions were confirmed as the staff said they had no record of Mr. Jaha being checked in, though they did see two suspicious figures lurking in the waiting room, only to disappear once they saw the two professors.

 

A few more lame attempts were made: jinxed letters that made him suddenly want to move to Albania, hexed quills that wrote encrypted messages about his current whereabouts, and the like. Things truly didn’t escalate until his fourth year.

 

* * *

 

Midway through the year, Wells received a brand new chess set from his father the evening before his birthday. Thelonious would often owl him his gift early, just to be certain he would have time to enjoy it. Usually he would receive smaller gifts of candy and chocolate the next day when the morning post arrived, which he would share with just about everyone.

 

Clarke asked if he wanted to play a few matches before curfew, twirling a finely carved mahogany bishop in her fingers. She felt a slight buzzing in her fingers, as if a mild electric current was running through the piece, but she figured it was part of the game’s enchantments. Many expensive sets had charms and enchantments added to them to prolong the life of the pieces or increase aesthetic values. For example, this board seemed to have an anti-smudging spell that prevented the board and pieces from getting full of fingerprints and scuffmarks. When Clarke released the bishop, it snapped to its place as if drawn by a magnet, solidifying her suspicions about the buzzing feeling.

 

Wells had declined her offer, instead stating he was too tired to play as he placed the game back in its box. The pair continued to chat amicably until it was time to return to their dormitories, to which the pair split off, one heading towards the dungeons and the other to the kitchens.

 

It wasn’t until the next morning that Clarke found out what had transpired in the Hufflepuff dormitory the previous night. Apparently Wells had been exceedingly suspicious of the gift, especially since his father had expressly stated he was going to have a one-of-a-kind set crafted for his son out of polished stone, honouring a Jaha family tradition. Wells had sorted through dozens of slabs of stone; picking the two that he liked the best—moonstone and hematite—months ago. His father wanted nothing short of perfection for his son and he wasn’t going to let anything stand in his way.

 

Therefore Wells couldn’t believe that his father would send this set instead. It was lovely, but not nearly as exquisite as the handcrafted one that Thelonious had chosen for his son.

 

So he didn’t trust it. He waited in the common room until was empty before removing the chess board from its packaging. Looking at it again, he noticed intricate carvings along each of the bases, as well as curling up the forms. They appeared to be runes, but he didn’t recognize them, or rather, he _recognized_ them but couldn’t comprehend them. It was almost as if every time he tried to read them, his mind would unfocus and he’d find himself singing the latest _Ridgebacks_ song.

 

He was halfway through _Burnin’ Up For You_ for the third time when he figured out the runes must either be creating some befuddlement charm, or be protected by one. If the set did have such a charm, Wells would be doubly surprised his father would give him this as he found cheating repulsive. He set down the piece he was holding and lifted a knight from the light side, to see if the same thing happened. He began reading at the base, twisting it clockwise… and continued to twirl it. Round and around and around—

 

Obviously both light and dark pieces were charmed, making the cheating theory unlikely. What was the point of ruining your opponent’s ability for strategy if you couldn’t remember your own?

 

The only way he would be able to properly understand the runes would be to copy them out individually and then reference _Spellman’s Syllabary_. Hopefully the enchantment only worked on the pieces themselves and not once he transferred them to parchment. It appeared that every piece had the same inscription, except the kings, which had their own unique set. Similarly all the other pieces had runes curling upwards in counter-clockwise tendrils, whereas each king’s runes curled clockwise.

 

It took Wells nearly two hours and a foot of parchment but he managed to copy down the symbols. He left plenty of space around each one, making sure he could write the meaning below all the while hoping that enough distance between the runes would counteract any lingering magic by proximity. It was a long shot, but he hoped that perhaps the wood mattered to the spell as well, acting like a conduit to transfer the spell into being.

 

It was well after midnight by now and Wells’ eyes felt gritty and he dreaded staying up even later to translate the script into English. However, his gut told him not to wait and that this puzzle needed to be solved before he was allowed to sleep. With a great sigh, he hauled himself down the hallway to his dormitory to retrieve the _Syllabary_. All the curtains were drawn around the four-poster beds, and Wells felt a flicker of envy as he listened to the slow breathing of his slumbering housemates. He looked at his own bed longingly and felt his feet shuffle a little closer before he shook his head. His instincts told him that this couldn’t wait so he reluctantly returned to his place in the common room, his textbook tucked under his arm.

 

Wells was modest by nature so he would never admit to being the best rune translator in his year, perhaps in the school. But he was. Professor Sprout even suggested that he drop one of his advanced Herbology classes to pursue Runeology and consider applying to summer programs abroad to study different runes in different cultures.

 

Within twenty minutes, he had translated a third of the runes and was already seeing a pattern. It appeared that, while the characters didn’t repeat, the sentiments were the same. The same five ideas repeated, almost like a chant, around the bases of the pieces: drain, mind, strength, will, and power.

 

Wells felt gooseflesh pebble on his arms. This was no cheating spell, nor a charm for aesthetics. This was a very dangerous, very old magic that seemed to track your movements in order to learn your strategy… no, not _learn_ your strategy, but literally _steal_ your knowledge. He was suddenly very glad he refused Clarke’s earlier invitation to play. If they had played even a few rounds…

 

“Wait,” Wells said, sitting up straight and regarded the board with a calculating eye. “Where does that information go?”

 

Very careful to not come in contact with the pieces, the cleared the board and began searching for runes along the edges. The light was low in the common room, little more than the glowing embers of the dying fire, so Wells produced a _lumos_ spell to better see. The edges were finely sanded and smooth, not even betraying the slightest indentation or groove. He checked the top of the board but it too was immaculate. He flipped it upside down and saw nothing but a small insignia burned into the wood.

 

He flopped back onto the couch, extremely frustrated. What was the point of going through the trouble of creating a syphoning spell only for all that information to be contained within the board?

 

Struck by sudden inspiration, Wells brought the illuminated tip of his wand close to the insignia. Written in miniscule script inside tiny, intricate scrollwork was the phrase “Success in Subterfuge”.

 

At least he was right about one thing: this was a cheater’s board. And he _knew_ it had a syphoning spell, or something very similar. Judging from the fact that the pieces had runes, this person was old school. And even though he didn’t know where the spell was hiding, he knew it was there. The runes didn’t lie.

 

He brought the tip of the wand closer and closer, until it made contact with the unfinished wood of the board. In fact, it touched the very edge of one of the scrolls and… it moved.

 

Wells jumped back as if shocked by an electrical current. _Wait, did I just hallucinate?_

 

He lifted his wand slightly then brought it back down. Once again, the scrolls fluttered as if caught in a breeze. He repeated the motion several times, moving around the common room to be sure it wasn’t a trick of the light, but every time the wand connected with the insignia, it moved.

 

This gave Wells an idea. Settling back down on the couch, he placed the board back on the table. He took a deep breath and whispered, “ _Alohomora_.”

 

The scrollwork writhed and flapped as if a great gust of wind had risen up but that was it.

 

He cursed quietly, disappointed it didn’t work but not entirely surprised. It was a simple spell and if you were going through all the trouble to enchant the board with _runes_ then you’d probably protect it against household unlocking spells.

 

So Wells tried dozens of spells, some real and some created out of frustration, but nothing seemed to unlock the board. At this point he was laying upside-down on the couch, feet in the air and head hanging over the edge. He glared at the board with a ferocity bordering on revulsion. He had been puzzling over this since six thirty that evening, and, in two hours, it will be twelve hours. _Twelve solid hours_. He was half-tempted just to throw the damn thing in the fire and—

 

The statue that guarded the entrance of the Hufflepuff common room stepped aside, causing Wells to start. His head swiveled in time to see Monty Green slink into the room. They caught each other’s eye and froze, unsure of how to navigate this situation.

 

“So,” Monty said slowly, walking over to where Wells was sprawled out. “What’re you doing?”

 

Wells raised his eyebrows. “I could ask you the same thing.”

 

Monty chuckled and plopped himself on the couch beside his fellow fourth year. “Ah, checkmate. I guess it’s don’t ask—“

 

Something clicked. Wells didn’t hear the rest of what Monty was saying. Instead, he flipped right side up and hunkered down in front of the board. Repeating the motion he had dozens of times, he gently tapped the board and whispered, “Checkmate.”

 

 _Click_.

 

Wells could have cried.

 

He picked up the board. Or rather, picked up the lower half of the board. Both sides were covered in thousands of miniscule runes. It would be impossible to decipher them all in a week, let alone before morning.

 

“Whoa,” Monty said, picking up the top half. “ Damn, dude. I have never seen so many runes on one object before. This is craz—hey, who’s Cage Wallace?”

 

“What?”

 

“Cage Wallace,” Monty repeated, pointing to the only inscription that wasn’t runes. “D’you know him?”

 

“No,” Wells said, taking the board from him, “but I think he’s trying to kill me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope I didn't disappoint you with this one. I've always wanted this fic to be about more than just bellarke, but about all the characters that'll be in this. Also this was unedited af so I apologize for that...
> 
> As always, leave any comments or criticisms in the comments and you will have my eternal gratitude.


	3. Letters and Library Books

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this took a little longer than i had hoped and it's smaller than i would have liked but i'm in a bit of a rut so it is what it is. once again, this is pure, uncut, unfiltered rambling to it will probably make as much sense as nicholas cage movie but there are more bellarke scenes. enjoy!

It had been three weeks since Clarke had received the message from Dumbledore that her father had been killed. Three weeks of misery, though at least she wasn’t alone. The Ministry had decided—or had been persuaded—to let Abby and Clarke stay with the Jahas instead of putting them in one of the safe houses. It was made clear that Thelonious was more than happy to have them and that his house was probably more secure than the Ministry itself.

 

Abby seemed slightly disappointed at the arrangement but she had probably hoped that this would give her and her daughter something in common again, even if it was a tragedy. However the aforementioned daughter was relieved that she would not have to be alone with just her mother in some isolated safe house, monitored day and night like a fugitive. At least this way, she’d have Wells.

 

At first she had taken to locking herself in her room, staring at the wall with her dad’s watch clasped in her hand. Sometimes she cried, sometimes she didn’t. As the initial shock wore off, she ventured out a little more, mostly to grab food or the occasional piece of paper to sketch on. Paper, not parchment, was her preferred medium; not because of any aesthetic or artistic choices, but rather because her father always bought her sketchpads from Muggle London. It was a tie to him, and more often than not it was his face that emerged from the end of her charcoal.

 

She had papered the walls of her borrowed room with her drawings, most of her father but a few other faces and scenes peeked through: a Quidditch player zooming across the field, long, dark ponytail whipping in the wind; a boy holding a flowering shrub, looking bashful; a curly-haired menace running with a large firework under his arm, and huge smile plastered on his face; a calm lake, with a large squid lounging near the surface…

 

She would have been lying if she said she wasn’t missing Hogwarts. She couldn’t help but think she’d be a lot more distracted there, which would help her to not focus on just how much she missed her dad. Wells was great company but he kept trying to tell her to talk about it, to let herself “feel the pain” when that was exactly the opposite of what she wanted to do. She wanted to forget, to not feel.

 

 _Speaking of forgetting_ , she thought as her eyes flicked over to the letters strewn across her desk. She hadn’t _precisely_ forgot about them, but was sort of… well, avoiding them. She had skimmed through a few, but mostly to find out what assignments she needed to catch up on. While she appreciated her friends’ concern, she didn’t want to deal with their sympathies. Not yet at least.

 

That being said, she dragged herself off her bed and went to her desk, feeling obligated to at least thank Monty for his efforts in keeping her from failing.

 

She flipped through the pile, searching for Monty’s insanely tidy script when a particularly fat envelope caught her eye. Clarke recognized Bellamy’s haphazard scrawl on the front. She saw that, over the course of her absence, he had written her a few times and couldn’t help but feel guilty again. She shouldn’t be ignoring her friends, especially if she still wanted to have some when she returned to Hogwarts.

 

 _If I return,_ one part of her mind thought morosely.

 

 _Shut up_ , another part said.

 

Grabbing a few of Bellamy’s letters, Clarke returned to her bed to read through them. If nothing else, they would prove to be entertaining. Bellamy always helped her keep her mind off things and she assumed his letters would be no different.

 

She wanted to be sure she read the letters chronologically so that, if he referenced earlier ideas—which he often did as if he were writing an essay, not a letter—she would know what the hell he was talking about. Therefore, she opened all the letters and searched the upper right corner for the dates.

 

Satisfied with the order, she began to read.

 

_Dear Clarke,_

_I never know how to start letters. They always feel so formal. You’d think that it would be as easy as talking, but I don’t think so. Letters have so much more permanence. While, yes, you can tear them, burn them, or eat them if you wanted, once you put pen to paper—or quill to parchment, in this case—your words become real. Solid. No longer relying on fickle memories and ghosts of words to…_

_I’ve gone philosophical again, haven’t I? Damn. Let me start over._

_Hello Clarke._

_Hogwarts is dreary without the sunlight of your company. Grey clouds loom overhead and slush clogs the arteries of the school._

_You have missed some dazzling—and I mean truly note-worthy, Oscar-winning—dramatics here at the ‘Warts. Apparently, Harper caught a certain Gryffindor, who shall remain nameless—Miller—and certain Hufflepuff who shall also remain nameless—Monty—sneaking around the Library. As you may be aware, certain alcoves are rather inconspicuous, especially if you have another certain Hufflepuff—Jasper—keeping lookout. However, if your aforementioned lookout is easily distracted—which he_ is _, especially concerning one Ravenclaw named Maya—then anyone, even an amicable-but-still-very-ex ex, can stumble upon even the most innocent and discreet trysts…_

The letter continued in such a fashion, telling her of the most hilarious, and on occasion ridiculous, gossip. Bellamy, tactful as ever, left out any rumours that may be swirling around about her. She was grateful. While reading about others’ misfortunes was entertaining, she didn’t exactly want to deal with her own.

 

Her friends knew the full story, of course. Actually, the whole school probably knew. The Daily Prophet probably had wind of the tragedy before Clarke even knew. That made it easier for her too. Maybe there weren’t any rumours about her for Bellamy to relay.

 

She was sitting on her bed reading through one of Bellamy’s letters when she heard a quiet knock. It was probably Wells, telling her it was time for lunch.

 

“Come in,” she said, putting the letter in the top drawer of her nightstand.

 

The door opened with a tiny whoosh and shut again with a small click. Clarke couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s attempt at being so quiet.

 

“I’m not a deer, Wells,” she said as she got off the bed. “I won’t run away if you’re too—“

 

She stopped, looking at her mother. Clarke hadn’t even known she had come back from the Ministry. She was supposed to be helping with the case, finding the people who did this… but she must have come back today. They must have found something.

 

“Clarke honey,” Abby said, reaching towards her hand out to her daughter. Clarke didn’t take it. “I’ve just been at the Ministry. There’s been a breakthrough… with your f–fa… in the case.”

 

Clarke’s eyes began to prickle, but she managed to nod. She cleared her throat then managed, “And?”

 

“Maybe you should sit down—“

 

“I’m fine. What did you find?”

 

If Abby was surprised by her daughter’s attitude, she didn’t show it. Instead she clasped her hands in front of her. Clarke thought she spotted a slight tremor go through the older woman, but she couldn’t be sure.

 

“Apparently… there was a leak. At the Ministry. Regarding us. Where our safe house was, the guard rotations, everything. We aren’t sure who, but it had to be—“

 

“How is that possible?” Clarke interrupted. “Weren’t _you_ the Secret Keeper? How could any information be _leaked_?”

 

“It’s not that simple, Clarke,” Abby said, a hint of reproach colouring her tone. “We had planned to do it that way, but we were advised to have a copy of the location made and kept at the Ministry in case something happened.”

 

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she heard herself say. “That completely defeats the purpose! Why would you do such a thing?”

 

Abby looked torn between being angry and ashamed. When she spoke, her voice reflected both emotions. “We did it for you.”

 

Clarke reeled back as if her mom had slapped her. _For me?_

“I don’t understand,” she said thickly, sinking onto the mattress. Her mother joined her.

 

“You remember the visit I took to the hospital? Well, I wasn’t visiting… There was an important member of the Ministry who had been severely injured. Do you remember Marcus Kane? Someone had tried to cast an Imperius curse on him but he had fought it. That displeased his attacker. So they tortured Marcus until he was unable to fight the Imperius. We still aren’t sure what they were after, but that’s beside the point.”

 

Abby paused for a few moments, seeming to collect her thoughts. She twirled her gold wedding band around her finger absent-mindedly, which made Clarke’s heart ache a little. She took a deep breath and continued.

 

“Jackson reached out to me. Marcus suffered some… strange wounds that rejected all treatments. They needed me in or he would die. So your father and I talked it over and he persuaded me to go. I didn’t want to go—” her voice broke but she continued, “but he insisted. He joked that I was driving him crazy anyways. He said he set the whole thing up… to give me something to do.”

 

Tears spilled onto Abby’s cheeks but she didn’t wipe them away. “The only worry we had was if it was a trap; that I was being lured out so the Death Eaters could capture or kill me, maybe even use me as bait to get to Jake. If that happened, you would never be able to find your dad, and he would never receive word that I was gone. So I wrote down our address and sent it ahead to St. Mungos. Once I got there, I would hide it and leave instructions for you to find it if something happened to me. I–I don’t know what happened. It must have been intercepted… It was waiting for me and it didn’t even look like it had been tampered with. So I hid it and wrote out the instructions for you, so only you could understand them. It’s… it’s _my fault_ he’s gone, Clarke. I was so stupid. I thought we were protecting you. I never thought—”

 

Abby broke down; sobbing so hard it shook the bed. Clarke was too numb to react, trying to comprehend exactly what her mother was telling her: that she was indirectly involved in the death of her father.

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke found herself alone in the Library tonight again. Raven, while now attending classes, didn’t talk to anyone much and left immediately after. Clarke had tried to engage the Gryffindor, but was only met with chilly silence.

 

Meanwhile, Clarke’s guilt multiplied. She was fairly certain Raven didn’t know that Finn’s “princess” was her, but she didn’t really want to wait until the truth was revealed. After all, Hogwarts was a small school and notorious for its rabid rumour mill. If Clarke didn’t knuckle down and tell Raven, someone else would.

 

“ _Princess_.”

 

Someone roughly brushed passed her, knocking against her shoulder. Her heart jumped into her throat and her stomach fell to her toes at the use of the nickname. The sudden shift of her anatomy made her a little dizzy.

 

However it wasn’t Raven or Finn, but that freckled boy from before. What was his name again?

 

 _Bellamy_ , her mind supplied.

 

“Oh, hello again,” she said cautiously, caught off guard by his menacing tone. His expression didn’t do a lot to ease her nerves. Come to steal another book from me?”

 

She offered a small smile, a peace offering. He didn’t take it. He just stared at her, the same way one stares at an object they are trying to light on fire using telepathic powers they don’t have but wish they did.

 

“What, no clever comeback? No witty repartee? I so enjoyed our last—“

 

“Yeah, well, far be it from me to make the _princess_ condescend to talk to the ravel,” he bit off harshly, causing Clarke to look up in alarm.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Listen, princess, I know who you are now. _Clarke Griffin_. You’re practically pureblood _royalty_. And in Slytherin, no less. Even talking to a Muggleborn like me must be tainting your precious blood.”

 

“Hey, you don’t even _know_ me,” she shot back, honest anger roiling inside her. “You assume that because you know my last name, you know who I am? Please. My father—“

 

“Oh don’t try to wow me with your lineage, princess,” he spat, eyes boring into her own. “I don’t give a rat’s _ass_ who your father is, or your grandfather, or his—“

 

“If you would have just _shut up_ for a minute, you would have heard me say that my father advocates for Muggle and Muggleborn rights at the Ministry! He is responsible for abolishing the Purity Act for not only business owners, but marriages and adoptions as well!”

 

Bellamy had the good sense to look surprised, if not slightly abashed. He obviously had not dug too deeply into her personal life, but rather let his assumptions get the better of him.

 

“And another thing—“

 

“Miss Griffin! Mr Blake!” A shrill voice interrupted Clarke, causing both parties to jump, pulling their glares off one another for the first time since their squabble started. They found themselves, much to their chagrin, with quite the audience. Almost every head in the Library was turned in their direction, including that of Professor McGonagall who had evidently been walking past and heard the racket.

 

Bellamy cursed under his breath as the stern professor strode towards the pair. Having very little knowledge of the professor outside of class, Clarke didn’t quite understand her companion’s sudden outburst. Sure, McGonagall was tough, but surely she was not immune to a little charm.

 

“Professor,” Clarke began, fixing her face into a properly regretful expression, “I am so sorry you had to see that. Bellamy and I were simply—“

 

“Not another word, Miss Griffin,” she said brusquely.

 

“But Professor, surely—“  
  
“I said _not another word_ , Miss Griffin. I am sure your hearing is well enough to have heard me, although perhaps a momentary bout of deafness would explain why the two of you saw fit to have a shouting match in the middle of the Library?”

 

Clarke had opened her mouth to reply but Bellamy kicked her shin lightly, causing Clarke to snap her mouth shut. Instead they both mutely shook their heads.

 

“Detention. Both of you. Tomorrow night at 7:30 sharp. Meet me in my office and I will assign you your tasks from there. Understood?”

 

Bellamy nodded. McGonagall nodded once, then turned her gaze to Clarke. She swallowed, shot a quick glace to Bellamy, and then followed suit.

 

“Good. Now, off you go. Library privileges will be suspended for a week as well, I think.”

 

“Yes, Professor,” they said in unison, gathering their books and swinging bags over their shoulders.

 

“Oh, and next time you two decide to quarrel, be sure to do it by Howler. It will be so much more quiet that way.”

 

* * *

 

 

Suffice to say, Clarke’s day had pretty much taken a nose-dive. What little joy she had managed to find reading Bellamy’s letters evaporated like breath on a windowpane.

 

While she did go down to dinner, she mostly just pushed the food around on her plate before excusing herself once again to her room and solitude. She didn’t much like the idea of being alone at the moment, but being around people didn’t seem to be helping her either. She decided that if she was going to be miserable, may as well be miserable by herself as to not drag anyone—Wells—down with her.

 

She laid on top of her bed, which had been made while she was at dinner, for hours; either unable or unwilling to sleep, she didn’t really know which. From the large bay window, she could see that the sky had shifted from brilliant pink to muted lavender to inky black. The lights in her room had never been turned on, allowing her to spot a few star glimmering far away.

 

She wondered what it would be like, being up there. Muggles had recently went to the moon. Clarke wondered what standing on the moon would feel like; nothing around you, nothing above you, looking at a floating blue marble suspended in the nothingness. _Floating isn’t even really the right word_ , she mused. _Floating reminds me of water. Floating suggests something holding the object up, like water or air. There isn’t any of that out there. Just… nothing._

There was a quiet tapping at her door. She debated ignoring it, but decided against that. She wouldn’t have minded a little company, especially if it was Wells. They could talk about space and the moon and he’d probably bring snacks because he would have noticed that she hadn’t eaten at dinner.

 

Her stockinged feet almost completely muffled her footsteps as she walked over to the door. She turned the immaculately-polished brass knob and quietly swung open the door, expecting to see her best friend on the other side. However, the hall was empty. Deserted.

 

 _Were the house elves playing nicky nicky nine doors?_ She wondered as she peered down the hallways. _Were house elves even_ capable _of playing practical jokes?_

Confused and slightly disappointed, Clarke was about to flop back onto her bed when she heard the sound again.

 

_Tap tap tap._

However it wasn’t coming from the door. She went over to a latched window, which currently had its blinds drawn as the sun streamed in it, shining its life-giving and irritating light on her at six in the morning. Pulling the blinds apart, she saw a two large owls gazing at her, resting on the sill. Tied to their legs was a thick parcel.

 

Intrigued, she unlatched the window, untied the parcel, and gave each owl a pat on the head. However, the pair seemed to have been promised more than a pat on the head and only left after she managed to produce two treats each for them. They disappeared into the night after giving a hoot of gratitude. Clarke tried to watch them fly away but the darkness swallowed them almost instantly, leaving behind the parcel as the only evidence of their brief presence.

 

Scribbled in the centre of the parcel was a small note which read:

 

_Princess,_

_Don’t fall too far behind._

_The Great and Powerful Rebel King,_

_B_

She tore off the wrappings, revealing a weathered book. The title, written in fading gold letters, was _Maladies for Muggles and Magicals Alike_.

 

A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. She opened the book and saw, in the steady, no-nonsense handwriting of the school librarian: _NEWT level preparation book. Not to leave Library._

 

And, for the first time in a long while, she beamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> side note: i always read and take into consideration what you guys suggest in the comments so keep em coming! more often than not they help get the inspirational jives going. and, as always, feel free to hmu on tumblr @jamespottersantlers


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